


A Great Man

by unintentionalgenius



Series: Astridverse [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: It's an AU where Sherlock has a kid, M/M, OC, fluff and angst in equal measures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-30
Updated: 2012-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-30 08:27:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/329781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unintentionalgenius/pseuds/unintentionalgenius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Sherlock Holmes had a teenage daughter he'd never met, and what if one day he had to become her parent?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Astrid is a character of my own invention, but all the others belong to BBC, Moffat, and Co.
> 
> Many thanks to my friends Jaclyn and Lillian, as well as my lovely beta, thesupernaturalwhiz.
> 
> Warning: un-Britpicked. If you'd be willing to do it for me, or even if you have one or two corrections that you know of, pleasepleaseplease tell me?
> 
> Cross-posted on fanfiction.net

221B Baker Street is not a common address for visitors who are not Scotland Yard employees or customers seeking a private detective. However, on a hatefully ordinary, boring day, Mycroft Holmes walked up its stairs with a teenage girl in tow. She carried a small leather backpack, probably containing what one would expect to be in a purse for a girl her age. She didn't have anything else, unless you counted the nagging look of being on edge and yet having completely given up, all at the same time. Mycroft knocked on the door of the flat and (unusually) waited for a response.

"What." Sherlock's voice answered. Not a question.

Mycroft entered, and the girl followed behind. As they entered she looked around, curious. John was typing at his computer and Sherlock was sprawled on the couch, teasing his violin. He looked up, almost lethargically, and John rotated in his chair.

"Mycroft. What do you want?" Sherlock asked petulantly. No cases on.

"I thought this would go over better handled by me, as opposed to a lawyer or some such thing," Mycroft replied.

"Not exactly an answer," John commented, only half listening.

Mycroft continued, unabashed. "This is Astrid. She's lived just outside of London for her whole life, and recently, her mother was killed in a tragic car accident. Her mother had no living relatives, so the girl's legal guardian is now her father, who she's never met."

Sherlock sat up almost imperceptibly, interested but hiding it from Mycroft. "You want me to find him?"

"Oh no, Sherlock," Mycroft almost grinned. "That's entirely unnecessary. I've already found him. I suppose I should expand my earlier statement. Astrid's father, until today, didn't know she existed. Her mother told her his name, and when she told the police who came to collect her that she knew who her father was, I was alerted."

More interested now, John interrupted, "Why would it matter to you? It's not a member of the royal family or something, is it?"

"Nothing of the sort, though I believe some days he thinks he is that important."

"Well then what is it?" Sherlock would have whined, if whining weren't completely below the world's only consulting detective.

Finally, the girl spoke up. "I'm Astrid. Astrid Holmes."

John looked first at Sherlock, then at Astrid. He supposed it could be true. The girl had his pale skin, that was for sure. Their hair shared the same curl, though hers was far more relaxed. Her eyes were the blue-grey depths that Sherlock's were on occasion. Her face resembled his, though if he had passed her in the street, he would have made no note of the resemblance. Yes, it could be possible. But Sherlock, his Sherlock, with a child? A biological child?

Sherlock's mind was fast at work calculating dates, gestational periods, and ages. Yes, mathematically and biologically the girl could have been the product of a one-night stand during uni, but what were the odds?

"You're sure?" he asked. Mycroft, not the child.

She fixed her eyes on Sherlock, as though daring him to refuse to claim her. John noticed, and marked another tally in the column "Likely Related to Sherlock". Little did he know how many tallies he'd mark there.

"I have my birth certificate, if that would make you feel any more certain." The girl spoke again.

Sherlock shook his head.

"Obviously Mycroft wouldn't have brought you here if he wasn't totally certain," John interjected, though he himself wasn't quite sure of that statement.

"Mother's name?"

"Anne Winters."

Sherlock paused for a nearly imperceptible moment, and then nodded. Apparently, this had assuaged his doubts.

Mycroft, perceiving this, continued, "So then. You're the girl's legal guardian, should you choose to accept such a duty. Since you never knew she existed, there is a bit of legal leeway for you to refuse."

Sherlock, for once in his life, was speechless.

John suddenly stood up from his chair and strode over to Sherlock. Their painfully ordinary day had disintegrated into one of those random moments that changes everything. He sat down beside Sherlock and placed a hand on his knee, drawing Sherlock's attention from the floor to his face. "What do you think?" he asked needlessly. If Sherlock had known what to think, he wouldn't be sitting here in silence.

"I'll be off to uni in just a few years, if that helps. I won't be in the way. All I really need is an address to put down on school papers and such." Astrid piped in. Such a high, melodic voice. Very different from the mellow, masculine voices that were so much more common in their flat.

A slight tilt of John's head, a firmer grip on his knee, was all Sherlock needed to tell him that John had already made a decision.

"Alright, she stays."

* * *

That night, after several pieces of luggage containing what was left of her old life had been delivered by black vehicles to Baker Street, and the situation had been explained to Mrs. Hudson, the men of 221B had a bit of a discussion.

"Well, the child can't sleep on the couch. I guess that seals it, one of us will have to officially move in to the other's room."

"Honestly John, I'm a sociopath, not an idiot. I'm well aware of the proper care of children."

John greatly doubted that.

"Fine then. Shall I move my things out, or are you moving in with me?"

"Logically, since you spend most of your nights in my bed anyway, you should move into my room."  
"As long as it's logical."

For once, Sherlock missed the sarcasm.

* * *

"So, Astrid…" John began, then trailed off. What do you say in a position like this?  _Would you like some dinner?_ Not like there was food in the flat. They'd have to wait until Sherlock got back and they all went out for Chinese or something.

_I'm your father's lover, hope it isn't weird for you._ That's a brilliant way to start a relationship.

_How do you like the flat?_  Honestly, it doesn't matter how she likes it; she's stuck here no matter what. If she hates it, she probably doesn't want to dwell on it.

_What's your favorite movie/book/TV show?_  Completely trivial and would probably result in a single-phrase answer. Not ideal.

"Mum went out for groceries. She never came back. I waited for a little while at the police station, and then Mr. Holmes-the older one-came in and told me that we were going home to pack my things. It took a few days to settle things, legally, and there was the funeral. Somehow I feel like if it hadn't been for his being there, it would have taken much longer. Then we drove here. It's only been a week." Direct, honest. No polite small talk, but no weeping and wailing either. Another tally for his mental column. But perceptive, too. Sherlock wouldn't have been able to feel the awkwardness in their silence, wouldn't have felt the need to end it.

"I'm sorry."

She nodded. "Me too."

Just then, the door banged open and Sherlock strode in. He was halfway through his explanation of an "absurdly simple" case (it had only taken him half an hour and hardly any legwork to solve the whole thing) when he registered Astrid, sitting at the table with John. "Oh." He stopped short.

John, sensing that neither one was ready for the conversation they'd eventually have to have, made a suggestion. "There's a great Italian place just a little while away. It's where Sherlock took me, the first time we worked a case together."

* * *

"Let's just establish some rules." The next morning, over breakfast, the real Astrid came out, full of energy and not at all the reserved, quiet child of yesterday. "There's no reason for you two to censor yourselves just because you think of me as a child. Say 'bloody'. Talk about gruesome murders. Drop the f-bomb if you feel the need, but don't patronize me. Actually, I'd feel the best if you changed your life as little as possible for me. Rule two: I don't know if you two have noticed or not, but being gay has become fairly acceptable recently, so you don't have to pretend you're just friends who are now sharing a bedroom or something. By the way, sorry about that. I didn't mean to displace you."

"Nonsense," replied John.

"It was about time anyway," Sherlock added, just loud enough to be heard. His first words all morning.

"We have some rules as well. Mostly the usual: don't sneak out, don't steal things, in general, don't be a juvenile delinquent. Past that, I don't really think either of us has a right to talk."

"I think we'll get along just fine," Astrid said with a grin.

The trio finished breakfast in a semi-companionable silence, broken only by the sound of Astrid or John's cup being sat down on the table. Sherlock, as usual, wasn't eating.

"Well, I'm off to the surgery." John got up and placed his dishes in the sink.

Sherlock had been leaning against the kitchen wall. As he left, John grabbed him and dragged him to the door, out of earshot of his daughter.

"You have to talk to her. No excuses."

"And say what, pray tell? 'Oh, I'm sorry I didn't know you existed, how can I ever make it up to you that I didn't come looking for you?' 'Please don't cry, it'll all be alright.' John, I don't like children. I don't like people! The vast majority are incredibly stupid."

"If you'd give the girl a chance, you'd be surprised how much the family name suits her."

With that, the good doctor left the building.

 

It didn't happen all at once. It didn't even happen gradually, like you'd expect. But one day, instead of "John, could you please pass the milk?" It came out, "Dad, could you pass me the milk?" A moment of silence, registering what they just heard. A look between two men. And then the milk was passed, poured onto cereal, and returned. Just a moment, and then nothing. Well, not quite nothing.

'Dad' never went back to 'John'.

Sherlock couldn't quite understand the pang of hurt that went through him when she still addressed him by his name.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More fun with Sherlock, John, and Astrid.

* * *

Sherlock had held himself distant from the girl. The only person he'd ever felt affection for was the man he lived with; how was he supposed to fit two people into a heart that even his own brother believed only had room for Sherlock himself? And yet, one day, he couldn't find Astrid anywhere in the flat; knowing where she would be, he ventured up to the second bedroom, now hers, and knocked. A muffled sound, some movement, and the door opened. Her eyes red and watery, nose raw from tissues rubbing it, Astrid peered around the door at her father and burst into another round of tears.

Sherlock did not understand people. He was a high-functioning sociopath, after all. But that day, instead of turning around and leaving her in the doorway crying, he took a few steps forward, took her into his arms, and held her. For a moment, just a moment, Sherlock attempted empathy: what would it feel like to lose John? A single mother with no family for Astrid would be much like John for him: the one person that could be counted on, the one who loved you unconditionally, the one who would be honest with you when no one else would… And Sherlock understood. Not fully, but enough. He held his daughter while she cried and then he rocked her to sleep in his arms, only laying her down after he was certain she had drifted off.

* * *

Being a parent is difficult. It requires responsibility, something Sherlock only has when it comes to gruesome or particularly clever crimes. It demands self-sacrifice, which Sherlock has only recently come to realize he is capable of, and then only for John. You're expected to set an example for an impressionable, smallish human to follow. He was very, very much 'a bit not good' for this job. It is necessary that you be available, physically and emotionally, for said smallish human. Sherlock was many things, but emotionally available was not on the list. And one hardly qualified as physically present when, at any given moment, one may need to chase down a mafia hitman or follow an obscure clue that can only be made use of during a certain time of day on a certain day of the week in a certain season, or something like that. Sherlock knew all of these things. At some point, he had more or less acknowledged them in so many words. But a part of him still longed to know if loving one's child could be as deliciously painful an experience as loving a soldier, a beautiful man that never, ever thought you were a freak and couldn't bear to see you in pain…but children are cruel, Sherlock knows that all too well. Children mock what is different. He has known enough pain inflicted by children to last him a lifetime. He doesn't know that he can tolerate that kind of pain, inflicted on him here, in his flat, his last stronghold against people like Anderson and Donovan who hurl words like "freak" as though they were spears that would deflate his mind, leaving him on their level. Home, this flat, is where John is, where John tells him he's brilliant, where John gives him those hugs that are more intimate than a hundred sexual encounters because John  _understands_. He knows those words hurt Sherlock, even if he'll never say so. Home is safe; if he lets the child in, she could hurt him. He can't lose his only refuge from the storm raging outside those doors.

These thoughts, this conflict, keeps him in stasis. He will not push her away; he refused to hide from her. But he will not be John either, John with his quick smile to cheer her up, John with his insatiable desire to learn more about her, to make her feel loved, to fill the gap that Sherlock's paralysis was leaving.

He desperately hated being unable to decide; it was a foreign feeling for him. It never happened. Indecision was something lesser men were plagued with, but not Sherlock. He could see her pain, every time she looked at him. She wanted words, actions, but these were things he'd never known how to give. If he could just ask John, if he could find the words to tell John how he felt, he knew John would know what to say, what should be done. Instead, he is held hostage by his own emotions, so recently awoken by an unassuming army doctor that he isn't even accustomed to their presence yet.

* * *

It was a few months after Astrid's abrupt arrival on their front step when the three of them knew that she had settled in. The milestone wasn't having finally unpacked everything; it wasn't finishing all the paperwork and legal hurdles; it certainly wasn't Mycroft finally ceasing his "visits" that were transparently obvious as checking up on the girl. What finally gave them license to call themselves a family was the day Astrid decided that Sherlock was Daddy. Not Father, it was too cold. Papa sounded too childish ("And Daddy doesn't?" Sherlock argued, though he was secretly pleased). No matter how Sherlock felt, she had made up her mind: her biological father was Daddy to her, from now on.

Sherlock, because he'd never think to ask, would never know that she had seen the internal conflict, that she'd looked into his eyes and  _known, utterly known_  that he couldn't move. So she took the first step. If he needed her to, she'd take the second. And slowly, he would begin to move again; she'd be his doctor of a different sort, in a different way, if he needed her to be.

* * *

One week, Astrid's class took a school trip to Edinburgh, in order to study the city's history, the parents were told. Thank God, John would say later. Their daughter didn't need to be around for what happened that week: her father, solving cases at the beck and call of a psychopathic bomber, and enjoying it. Certainly not bored anymore. Sherlock, for his part, was glad for the lack of distraction: he wanted to focus all of his energy on solving the cases and preventing further deaths, which his absorption in getting to know his daughter would have hindered. What neither of them wanted to mention was that they both thought she was safe, out of London, away from the bomber's constant surveillance of 221B, because this would imply that when she came home, she would be unsafe. The last thing either of them wanted was to admit and have to face the fact that there was no way to guarantee anyone's safety, least of all someone so important to both of them.

Sherlock was exceedingly glad this had been the week chosen for her trip when the flat was blown up, and his first thought was that his daughter might have been hurt, had she been there. Completely unsafe for a detective who needed to solve complex cases in just a few hours, or else cause the death of an innocent person.

* * *

While solving the Carl Powers case, Sherlock's mind wandered to another teenager on a school trip whose parents were sure their child was safe. He found himself wishing she were nearby (he could watch her himself, 24/7 if need be. He knew that way she'd be safe, nothing and no one could get by him), but at the same time being so very glad that she wasn't anywhere near London. Not right now. Not for this.

* * *

When he solved the Ian Monkford case, he thought that no one could pay him enough to leave his family; there was no trouble he'd ever be in great enough for him to vanish like that. Never.

* * *

When Astrid walked in the door and threw down her bag, she could sense something was…off. Not wrong, necessarily, but not the 221B Baker Street she was accustomed to. Of course the bomb damage had been mostly repaired, but it was the atmosphere: the feeling of home being not-quite-safe anymore, a feeling she didn't quite understand.

"Daddy? I'm back!" She smiled at him. The two had grown more attached to each other than Sherlock would dare admit.

He smiled at her, albeit weakly. He'd just scheduled a meeting with a murderer. He hoped she'd be asleep by the time he left for the pool. With that, he opened his arms for a rare hug. "How was it?"

"Not quite fascinating. Would've been better if I didn't already know most of it. And the people at my school don't really know how to talk to me, so I just sort of…kept to myself all week."

Even in Sherlock's mind, that seemed a bit unhealthy. But what did he know? John would've known exactly what to say. John always knew. Sherlock felt like he never did.

He settled for:"You just missed John. He'll be happy to see your safe return."

"What's wrong?"

Sherlock's head jerked up. His daughter could read emotions like he could read a crime scene; there was no hiding from her.

"I'm just...tired."

Astrid had quite literally never heard her father admit to a human weakness like exhaustion or hunger; this confession left her off balance, but she was happy. Maybe he'd be less tense if he could come to grips with the fact that he couldn't go weeks without sleep. She worried for him.

Sherlock continued, brushing off her look of concern: "You should go to bed. It's been a long day for you. I'll have John wake you if he gets back at a decent hour, but you need some sleep."

Astrid didn't tell him that the same could be said for him.

* * *

When she woke up and looked at the clock, it read 3:02 AM. She climbed out of bed and grabbed some socks for her frozen feet. Sherlock must've broken the heater again. She wandered into the main area of the flat groggily, looking for her parents, planning on complaining light-heartedly and then snuggling with John, whose body was like a radiator. When she could find neither of them in their usual spots, she checked the bedroom: no one. A little concerned, she shot off a text to DI Lestrade, one of the few phone numbers in her cell phone, put in by John.

_**Do you know where my parents are?**_

_**-Astrid Holmes**_

Not very many minutes later, her phone rang.

"Astrid?"

"Detective Inspector?"

"I'm sending a car 'round for you. You're to go with them and they'll bring you to me."

"Are you with my parents?"

"…In a manner of speaking…"

"I'm sorry, I don't understand…"

"It will be easier to explain in person."

He hung up.

Astrid waited for ten minutes that seemed like ten days, even as filled with preparation as they were. She threw her wallet, cell phone, and a few other important odds and ends into the same leather backpack she'd carried the day she came to Baker Street. Then, changing out of her pajamas, she grabbed one of John's jumpers off a chair and put it on. It was far too big for her, but it was warm and comfortable and smelled of Dad to her. She pulled on some black pants and her favorite pair of shoes. As she grabbed her coat and was walking out the door, she noticed something: her father's favorite blue scarf, not on his neck, but on the coat rack. A growing sense of concern creeping in, she grabbed it too and wrapped it around her own neck. Surrounded by the two scents that had come to mean absolute safety for her, she set off down the stairs to meet the car from Scotland Yard.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, since this is an AU anyway, just pretend that the ending of the pool scene went my way instead of Moftiss' aSiB way. Of course, I own none of the characters except Astrid. Reviews are always welcome!

When the car stopped, Astrid got out and scanned the crowd for D.I. Lestrade. She was a little unsettled; there used to be a large building of some sort here; what was it?  _A pool, it was definitely a pool._  It had been reduced to no more than a pile of rubble, still smoking from a fire, it would appear. Why would he bring her here? Clearly her parents weren't here; why would they be? Obviously he must be on a case. Maybe the same one her father was on, but why couldn't he have just told her that over the phone?

The grim, smoldering remains of what (she was certain now) used to be a pool were making her more and more uneasy. She wished she could just find D.I. Lestrade and get to wherever her parents were. It had been a long week and she was still exhausted, and now she was colder than she had been in the flat and  _all she had wanted was to snuggle with John._  Finally, she spotted Lestrade. He waved her over, but the look on his face was downright frightening. It was one she had seen before, all too recently, on the face of the officer responsible for telling her that her mother was dead.

Suddenly, she knew. She didn't have to be told; it was a certainty, like knowing that gravity pulls down or that winter in London will be cold. She knew that this pile of rubble was involved in her parents' case, and that it was the same case Lestrade was working on, and that something truly terrible had happened to them.

"Daddy?" she whimpered, repeating it, slowly getting louder. Panicking, praying for him to emerge from somewhere and dislodge the creeping certainty that had taken hold of her mind like a thick, noxious smoke. "Daddy? Sherlock! Sherlock Holmes you answer me right now!" Her voice cracked and, despite her best efforts to the contrary, tears began welling up in her eyes. The looks of pity being shot her way were almost more than she could bear, but she had to bear it, because of course there was no reason for it; her father was fine, and John was somewhere…

John. Of course. If they'd brought her, they'd have brought John. So where was he? "Dad?" she called, her voice calmer now. He'd know what to do. Obviously he hadn't been with Sherlock, he'd gone out hours before Sherlock had left, hadn't he. No reason to worry for both of them. Where the devil was he?

By now, Lestrade had made his way over to Astrid, same look of pity on his face. Astrid wanted to make him stop looking at her like that, tell him that her parents were fine, tell him not to pity her, that she was fine. "Astrid, I'm sorry…Within this building, there was a bomb. Both John and Sherlock were inside. We're doing our best to find them and get them out right now, but it will most likely be a long process."

As soon as the words "I'm sorry" had left his mouth, Astrid had begun to tune him out. She had started to steel herself for the ordeal she knew was coming, the one she thought had finally ended: sympathy, people who had never cared suddenly inquiring after her wellbeing, people who had no idea what she'd lost… The world began to shrink and spin around her; she became horribly dizzy and found, to her surprise, that she couldn't remember how to breathe. Just as her knees gave out, DI Lestrade caught her and picked her up. She was so light, he thought. Like a toddler. Like a pillow. She clung to him like a lifeline.

He took her over to the ambulance, where she recovered her ability to do things she should've been doing naturally, like breathing. As the paramedics attempted to wrap an orange shock blanket around her shoulders (and met with heavy resistance), she had no idea that Lestrade was thinking of a similar image: a Holmes, in the same blue scarf, wrapped in an orange blanket for shock, proving that for once he cared about another person, that he could appreciate what someone had done for him; thinking of how far Sherlock Holmes had come since that day; thinking about this girl that Lestrade could tell he had grown to love, however begrudgingly it began.

Regaining full control of her mental faculties and throwing the blanket off in disgust, Astrid strode up to the police line, where she encountered Sergeant Donovan, keeping back the passersby and curious citizens. As she made to walk through, Donovan stopped her. "I'm sorry, but you can't go through here."

"The hell I can't," was the answer she was met with.

Lestrade, a few paces behind, finally caught up, and supplemented, "Sally, this is Sherlock's daughter."

A few seconds for the information to sink in, and then, "The freak reproduced?"

"My father is NOT a freak, and so help me if you use that word in reference to him again I will knock you squarely into next week without a qualm." Her voice was hard but quiet. Icy, even. Much like Sherlock's when angry. John would have marked that one down on his mental scorecard.

With that parting remark, Astrid strode past the police line all the way up to the edge of where the debris had fallen. Lestrade followed her, stepping under the tape marking the police boundary and taking his position beside her. She didn't turn to look at him. In fact, if she hadn't said his name, he'd never have known she was aware of his presence.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, this isn't personal. But I want you to know, so that there isn't any confusion, that from this day forward, you will always be, to me, the man who may have killed my parents."

 

 

The sky was beginning to have a very definite pink tint, and Astrid hadn't moved from her spot on the very edge of the debris. She had watched the Search and Rescue team all night for any sign that they had found someone; they had found quite a few someones, but they had all been dressed as snipers, and many were still armed. None were still alive. Lestrade began to formulate a theory on what had transpired. He did not share it with Astrid.

Her mind had been blank for the last few hours. She had simply watched the Search and Rescue teams move through the rubble, combing it for traces of her family. She had no thoughts, just emotions: a brief stab of anxiety every time there was a false alarm, a breath of hope and terror intermingled when they found someone, the feeling of falling back to earth when it wasn't one of her parents. Thoughts could wait until later.

 

 

_John had agreed. Of course John had agreed; John trusted Sherlock almost implicitly. Sherlock took a deep breath and pulled the trigger; at the same moment, John's arms had reached out and pulled him into the alcove where John had been sitting moments earlier. The bomb's blast left them all deafened temporarily; for a moment, Sherlock couldn't even tell up from down. Suddenly he could: a huge piece of the building fell, finding its way between Sherlock and John, separating them from each other. Sherlock felt rather sorry for not thinking his actions all the way through: if he died, Astrid would be sent to live with Mycroft, a fate worse than death in his mind. Funny, that Astrid's wellbeing now was his first thought. As he was collecting his thoughts and checking himself for injury, Sherlock came to a jarring realization: he couldn't hear John. Not moving, not talking, not breathing. He knew his hearing had returned because he could hear water dripping, could hear his own ragged breathing, could hear lapping at the edge of the pool now filled with debris. He could only hope Moriarty had been caught in the blast. "John?"_

_"John, are you conscious?" Coming from anyone else, it would have been cold and clinical. From Sherlock, it was synonymous with 'concerned'. The lack of answer distressed Sherlock; if John had retained any consciousness at all, he would answer, he was sure of it. No matter how badly he was hurt, he would let Sherlock know he was still alive. John would never want Sherlock to worry needlessly. "John?" Still no answer. Sherlock considered the outside world: someone would have heard the blast, called 999. Would Lestrade be notified? Not immediately, there was little obvious connection. Hopefully the idiots at Scotland Yard could piece together the events of the night well enough to bring in a rescue team. It was painfully obvious from his blog entry. Surely even they weren't that dense. But would it be fast enough for the obviously critically injured doctor? Sherlock thought to send off a text to Lestrade and possibly even Astrid, but only got as far as reaching into his pocket before realizing his phone had been completely obliterated. As he sighed, he began to feel light-headed and heavy-lidded; he was sinking into something a little too strong to be called sleep._

_By the time he could deduce that his injuries must have been worse than previously detected, and that he had (until now) been running on adrenaline, he was unconscious._

Another few hours, another few bodies; that was how Astrid summed up the time until 8 am, when quite out of the blue, someone yelled: "We've got a live one!"

This irregular occurrence immediately pulled Astrid out of her reverie. This was the first body pulled from the rubble that was not a corpse. She took a half a step closer before Lestrade's hand was on her arm, holding her back. Had it been another time, another place, she would have shaken it off, but as it was, it was just enough of an excuse to stay, to not know for just that much longer, to be blissfully ignorant for another few seconds.

_Just one, please, just let me have one parent left at the end of this day. Please God let me keep one, if I can't have them both._

As the medical team prepared to receive their first patient, she alternated between squeezing her eyes tightly shut and straining to see who it was they carried. A few seconds passed where, once again, her body had forgotten how to breathe, and then the wind blew through dark curls and ruffled the hair even further.

"Sherlock." Lestrade breathed.

Astrid said nothing. Not yet. To speak would be to accept that he was freed, but that she could still lose him. Speaking would make it real, would mean all of this had happened. Would solidify the dawning realization that only one body had been pulled out, not two.

As they walked past her with his very, very still body, something inside broke.

"Daddy?" she whispered, not even audible above everything else going on around them. Just a small child, lost in the commotion. Very alone.

But, apparently, audible to Sherlock. He moved. Just a little. A flicker of his eyelids. Barely noticeable, really- and then he opened his eyes. Relief flooded through her, threatening to steal her legs from under her. She took a deep breath to steady herself, and then resumed her vigil for John, assured that Sherlock would be alright; he still perceived the things no one else did.

Another hour passed, and she still didn't move. Later, she would be informed that it took such a long time to extricate Doctor Watson because of the precarious arrangement of the rubble around him. Right now, all she knew was that her other father was still trapped, pinned underneath rubble, possibly fading away, and it scared her to death.

Mentally, as much to distract herself as anything else, she tracked her father's progress at the hospital: he would be there by now; right now he was being examined; at this point he was probably in surgery; if someone was there waiting on him, the doctor would most likely have come out and updated them on his condition by now; and so on. The thought crossed her mind that Mycroft might be there. She reasoned that Sherlock would've wanted her to stay and wait for John, so she felt no guilt in his having to face the hospital without her. Besides, it was unlikely she'd do any good there. Here, she could be Sherlock's eyes and ears. He'd want to know everything, when he was better.

Lestrade had begun to give up hope of ever getting the soldier out of the demolished building when, after what seemed like forever, he was finally pulled free. That was what Lestrade had been waiting for; his concern for anyone in the building had stretched only to the consulting detective and his partner. After all, there were no civilians involved; the pool had been closed. He beckoned a Search & Rescue team member to inquire about finding any more likely perpetrators.

Over her shoulder, Astrid heard a report of "that's it, that's everyone out."

"Are you sure? There should've been a bloke by the name of Jim Moriarty in there. Sherlock wouldn't have come for anything less than Moriarty in person. That entry on his site…" Lestrade faded out. In the intervening hours between John and Sherlock, all the bodies had been identified. None was Moriarty.

"Sir, if he was ever in there, he got out before the blast."

"Damn," Lestrade swore.

Astrid never took her eyes off John's limp form being moved to the ambulance. She followed the stretcher, and made to climb into the back with the still-unresponsive John, when one of the medics refused her entry, and she was left standing on the sidewalk, alone.

Standing there, watching the ambulance containing her Dad drive away, Astrid thought that this Moriarty had made a grave error: he'd forgotten to calculate for her, and with what she was in danger of losing, what she was in danger of becoming, that was a fatal miscalculation.

_John had agreed. Of course John had agreed. He would trust Sherlock with his life; he'd proved that on more than one occasion. He'd even kill for him, he'd proved that too. All the same, he couldn't leave him there, exposed, in the bomb's immediate blast radius. The soldier in him screamed that the man needed to be pulled to safety, the lover in him knew he'd do anything to keep him alive; so that was what John did. As soon as he saw Sherlock's finger begin to move, oh so slightly, his already tensed muscles had leapt up and pulled him behind the barrier he had been leaning against just minutes ago. After that, the world was a little fire and a lot of inky blackness, taking away the pain._

_Thank God for Mycroft_ , Astrid thought. She wasn't sure how she would have handled this moment, right now, the two people she loved more than anything, both prone and unconscious, without his help. He had arranged it so that the two of them were in a room together, a private room with 'round-the-clock care, a room big enough that there was a rather large, clinical armchair for Astrid in a corner. She had perched herself there upon being shown to the room and practically hadn't moved since. She had needed to see them both, to watch them breathe, to hear the steady sounds of the monitors that told her they were still here. She scanned their faces, their exposed skin: cuts, bruises, burns, they were all present. Their bodies had been through hell and back. She hoped their dreams, if they were having any, were pleasant; no one who had been through something like that deserved nightmares. She wouldn't sleep, wouldn't give up her vigil until they were awake. She couldn't bear it if they woke up without her there. From the armchair she could see them both. She occupied the only spot in the room from which you had an equally acceptable sightline to the bed of both John Watson and Sherlock Holmes.

It was only when Lestrade stumbled in, looking as sleep deprived as she was and forcing a cup of tea on her, that she realized how long she'd gone without food. She had never tested her body's limits on self-imposed starvation, but she could feel herself nearing the edge. Employing more self-preservation than Sherlock ever had (and thanks to more than a few of her doctor father's lectures on healthy eating habits), Astrid asked the next nurse that checked on her parents where she could find some food. She didn't know exactly what the nurse had seen to cause her to give Astrid such a look, but she must have been a sight, because a few minutes later an orderly appeared with a tray full of food.

After eating, exhaustion began to pull at Astrid, tugging her eyelids down, dragging on her like a net. She couldn't sleep; not yet. Neither man was awake, and she had to know, had to be sure. She couldn't lose her whole family, not again. Sleeping would let them slip away, unnoticed. To sleep would have been akin to giving up on the only people she had left to love, the only people that might love her, a broken, motherless child with nowhere to go and no one to care if she simply vanished.

When the thud and crash came from the room at the end of the hall, two nurses went running. They tutted and clucked over the teenage girl, so exhausted she'd fallen asleep and tumbled out of her chair, overturning the table her food tray had been resting on. Her body was so fatigued, she wasn't even awoken by the impact with the floor.


	4. Chapter 4

Astrid waited. She spent hours waiting. Most of the hours were awake; she couldn't bear to close her eyes. She'd barely blink. A few half-hours, sprinkled here and there, were spent asleep. Her body forced her to cave in to the need for rest, but never for long. She was much too strong-willed for that.

While she waited, one particular orderly seemed to pop in and out for no reason. At one point, she confronted him (as non-confrontationally as possible) and asked why he kept coming in; his answer was that he was "just checking up on things", in a lilt that sounded very Dublin to her. His voice was higher pitched than she'd expected; it lulled her into a sense of security, and any other time he came by and she was awake, his presence was mostly ignored.

Mycroft was away in some South Asian country, either starting or preventing a war, and had dispatched not-Anthea (Astrid's personal name for her) to the hospital to give him a personal report. Upon receiving it and determining that his presence was not required, neither of the two were seen again.

Lestrade dropped by, when he had time. He was investigating the case to the best of his ability, but they really needed Sherlock.  _Of course you do_ , Astrid had silently answered him. Out loud she said nothing.

Within the first few hours after they'd been retrieved from the wreckage, Astrid had called Harry Watson. It didn't matter that it was 10 AM, the woman was already drunk.  _Or still drunk from the night before_ , Astrid thought to herself. She supposed it didn't really matter; she told Harry what she knew. After hanging up, she still doubted whether any of it had registered. She found that she couldn't bring herself to care, especially when the woman hadn't even known who she was. Astrid knew John talked about her all the time, not to mention she'd been over to the flat before. Harriet Watson had no excuse.

 

 

When Sherlock woke, the first thing he noticed was that he was in a hospital. The second, that John was beside him, and not already in the morgue; they'd both survived. The third, that Astrid was in an armchair, asleep, as close to them both as she could possibly get. Here, his gaze lingered. He couldn't stand to look at John yet, not closely, not like  _Sherlock_ can look, so he looks at his daughter. She was a strange creature; he was fairly sure most teenage girls weren't like this. An admission of only being fairly sure about anything was rare for Sherlock, but here in the privacy of his own mind he could be honest. He didn't know much about teenage girls, but his looked very, very alone, curled in on herself as she was. He would call it the foetal position, but that implied security. This child looked anything but secure. A flash of remorse crossed his consciousness: she deserved safety, a family that was closer to normality, someone who might even take her to therapy to cope with the loss of the only parent she'd ever known. None of those were characteristics of the men who lived at 221B Baker St. In fact, they were close to the polar opposite. With John and someone else-just the thought pained him- she could have that life; he was the independent variable. John would be a wonderful parent, was already a wonderful parent. Sherlock fell far short.

As if she had heard his thoughts (and really, even Sherlock with all his science and logic sometimes thought the girl was a mind reader), Astrid jerked awake. Taking a second or two to acclimatize, she blinked and adjusted to the light. "Daddy! You're awake!" She bounded up out of the chair that she'd been sleeping in and over to his side in the few seconds it took her to say it. She reached out her hand to take his.

"An obvious observation." Sherlock couldn't help himself. The second it left his mouth, he regretted it. She pulled her hand back, and her face fell, but only slightly.  _Some part of her had been prepared for this_ , Sherlock thought. His regret deepened. Was that really what she had come to expect as the norm? That would have to change.

"You've been out for positively  _days_ ," Astrid continued, trying to appear unabashed. A slight hyperbole (it had only been two), but to her, with grief stretching her very soul to its limits, it had felt like years. "You took  _forever_ to wake up. You had me worried," she playfully chided, not entirely able to hide the truth of the statement with her joking tone. Her joviality didn't quite reach her eyes.

Just then, a nurse walked in, having observed Sherlock's newly regained consciousness. After a few basic questions, she filled him in on his condition. The nurse admonished him that had he been taking proper care of himself (Sherlock deduced that she meant the hateful eating and sleeping business) before the "hmm…accident", he would probably not have been hospitalized at all, or at least his condition would have been much less severe.

Next, she moved to fill him in on John's condition. Of course, officially they were just flatmates, but clearly Mycroft had been at work here too, and Sherlock got at least as in-depth a briefing as any spouse would be entitled.

John had suffered far more extensive injuries than Sherlock; besides oxygen deprivation, he had several severe burns, had been intubated in the ambulance on the way over (and still was), had broken several ribs and an ankle, and had been concussed, rather severely. He hadn't regained consciousness since the explosion. The longer the nurse talked, the more dark and inscrutable Sherlock's face became. Incidentally, so had Astrid's, when she had gotten her own update.

John would have noticed.

_John. His John. **His**  John was lying there, so very unnaturally still, covered in burns and bruises and lacerations. It wasn't just some excruciatingly normal person, it was John. Enigmatic, more-than-meets-the-eye, loving John. John who barely even noticed cadaver pieces scattered around the flat. John who took care of Sherlock when he was hurt so that he wouldn't have to go to the hospital. John knew he detested hospitals. John, the one person who had never so much as uttered a 'freak' in Sherlock's direction, despite having known him for this long. He would die for this man. That was a shocking thought, the great Sherlock Holmes depriving the world of his incredible genius for a simple soldier. A surgeon, too, but an incapacitated one. He couldn't operate anymore, not with the shoulder injury. Of absolutely no worth to the human race on the whole. But to Sherlock, he was safety. He was security. Love, even, though they had never said the words. Sherlock vowed to himself that if when John awoke, he would tell him; would say it a hundred times. But he is Sherlock, and to say it once in a week would be asking almost too much. He knows this, deep inside; but it's the thought that counts._

When John wakes up, the atmosphere in the room is far different from Sherlock's first view of it; Astrid, in the intervening five days, has set about making the place less sterile, less stark, and has by all accounts succeeded: a blanket from home thrown over each man's bed; flowers sent by various acquaintances arranged about the room; both men's laptops positioned within easy reach of each bed; John's favorite tea mug on the table.

Sherlock was nearly ready for release, only having been kept this long to "put a bit of weight on him". The word "release" implied his leaving the hospital; he planned on doing no such thing- instead, when they brought his release forms around, he would sign them, put on street clothes, pull in another chair, and recommence waiting for John. So many times in their life together, John had waited on him; this was the least he could do.

So when John wakes up, it is not to the same room Sherlock first saw. Astrid still looks scared and exhausted, but instead of falling out of chairs from exhaustion, she now only has heavy purple half-moons lurking under her eyes. She looks fragile, like a strong wind could push her into the Thames. Like a too-rough touch could shatter her. Sherlock looks much the same; it is a mark of John's utter selflessness that the first thing he notices is how very much alike father and daughter look, instead of asking what happened to him, why he was hospitalized, or what his injuries were. He would laugh, but it all hurts. Literally, everything. Even breathing, but he supposes that's something that must be done, so he'll deal with that pain.

Sherlock notices first, and in one movement hits the call button and kisses him gently, much more gently than one would think Sherlock Holmes was capable of kissing, if one had ever considered Sherlock's capability to kiss. Astrid steps back, letting them have a moment, and grins broadly.

A few days later, John is cleared to go home. Sherlock has hardly left his side the whole time. John is still in pain, and he can't walk very easily, but he is going  _home_. Sherlock is nearly dancing with happiness, but has the self-restraint to simply add energy to his steps rather than actually dancing. Astrid simply smiles; but 'simply' is the wrong word; it implies that it is just a smile, which it isn't. It is all of her happiness poured into one physical feature. This is all the pain and fear she had felt in the past week and a half vanishing; it is an end to bearing the incredible burden of worry that she has carried. It is simple because it is so very, beautifully uncluttered by anything; it is just joy and relief. It is radiant and constant and unfailing because she is taking her parents home. John is not dead, and Sherlock is not dead, and she isn't alone.

No one knows it, not even Astrid, but as much as she craves solitude sometimes, her biggest fear is being alone. She lived for so long with just her mother, and lost her; in this life, in London, she has a few more people, but not enough. Nowhere near enough, when the collapse of one building can take everything you care about down in flames. She and Sherlock share this trait: they are terrified of being alone, and neither one acknowledges it.

She won't think of that today, though. Today is for happy thoughts, for calling a cab at the entrance and going home. Which, incidentally, Mrs. Hudson has cleaned up in expectation of having her boys (and one precious girl) back, with the reminder that she's "not your housekeeper, dearies, but just this once." As Astrid walked down the hospital hall, she encountered Lestrade.

"I'll be there in a minute, just need to talk to DI Lestrade for a second," Astrid said to her parents.

As she turned to Lestrade, her face changed. Now she was somber, focused. "You remember what I said?"

Lestrade nodded. He certainly remembered; you could even say it had been haunting him. In fact, that was probably the most accurate description of the effect of her words. They were chilling, cold, remorseless. Facts. The lack of emotion made them all the more terrifying: those words, in that tone, should never have come from the mouth of a teenager, someone who was supposed to be all youth and idealism. It had been impersonal, painfully so. The way she said it seemed to say so much more:  _I like you, Lestrade. I might even call you Gregory, or maybe even Greg, eventually. You'll probably come to my birthday parties. More than likely, you'll attend my wedding. Your name will always be one of the few in my phone's contacts. But every time I look at you, every time your name is mentioned, I will think of this. I will think of the despair I felt as I stood for hours, waiting for news of the only people in this world I have left to love. The possibility of their death will be the first thing I connect with you when I think of you. This is your warning; I say this so that you understand why, when I look at you, there is no warmth. I want you to know why I will always resent, at least a little, any time you spend with my parents: your actions could have taken them from me, and now, when you're with them, you're taking the time I was granted that just days ago I never thought I'd have. Fair or not fair, this is how it will be._

"Good," she said, having given him time to think. "Because it still stands."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a reference to an "awkward birthday conversation". It's a oneshot I wrote that you can find in "Something Like Beginning", a series of oneshots written in this same 'verse, all of which take place before the events of TGG. Many, many thanks to my brilliant beta, ongreenergrasses. She's fantastic, and funny, too.

From the viewpoint of the cabbie, the ride home must have been one of his strangest fares all week. Other than "221 Baker Street" and "keep the change", not a word was spoken the entire ride. The three Londoners, all looking the worse for wear, simply stared at each other. It was like they were drinking each other in, observing everything there was to see, memorizing every feature like there would be a test afterwards. It was obvious that two of them were related; the cabbie assumed quite rightly that they were father and daughter, but he couldn't puzzle out the third occupant's place among them. He drove along, playing a little game with himself, trying to decide the other man's relationship to the dark-haired pair. It felt like no time at all had passed when they stopped in front of 221B and Mrs. Hudson came hurrying out to help them get John inside. His ankle was still giving him some troubles when it came to mobility, but that was only to be expected when one breaks the bone in three places. Astrid paid the cabby with money from Sherlock's wallet (he wasn't the only one capable of pick-pocketing a distracted cab occupant) and followed a few steps behind, marveling at her luck.

* * *

After getting John settled, Sherlock walked back into the living room and looked at Astrid. He just looked; no words were exchanged. He knew, he was profoundly certain, that they needed to have the conversation John had been prompting him to have since her first full day with them. But Sherlock hesitated. It had very recently been proven that people he loved were pawns for Moriarty's game, making him reluctant to let her in at all, but he couldn't stand the look on her face when he spoke to her. He wanted her to know how he felt, but at the same time didn't want to feel it; it was safer for her to not be loved by him, even if it ripped him to pieces inside when his daughter shrunk back from his words like a puppy that had been hit one time too many. Every time she reacted like that, he could feel a sinkhole in the pit of his stomach open and suck anything good and pleasant down inside, because anyone who could make her react like that didn't deserve a damn thing and certainly didn't deserve happiness, didn't deserve  _John_.

He had been far too cold for far too long, and to hell with the consequences, because he was 98.7 percent certain that he loved this strange, smallish female just as much (but in a little bit of a different way) as he loved John.

"I know," Astrid's voice startled him out of his thoughts and back into the living room.

"What?"

"It's hard for you, doing the things that most people find natural and easy. Like feelings."

Aha. She was doing the emotions thing again. He was supposed to tell her how he felt now, but what exactly did one say here? "I do want you to stay. Here. With me. Us." He considered his next words carefully, playing them out in his mind before saying them. Each sentence was tested before he started to say it, eliciting a pause each time. "I care about you. I don't dislike you. You are…the child I would have chosen for myself, if I'd had a choice. And you're…you aren't like other people."

"Sort of like how John isn't like other people?" she smiled. He'd said something right. Good.

"Yes, but John is very…normal."

"Like a translator for normal human into Sherlock and vice versa."

"Exactly! Whereas you are more… me and John combined, and female."

"Is that…good?" Sherlock was reminded again that she was so very vulnerable. All she wanted was his approval.

"It is very, very good. Exactly right. You fit. Just as it should be. And-" he paused for a deep breath, and then sighed, "I love you."

Astrid grinned, a grin that should have hurt, it was so big, but it didn't because she was so happy nothing else mattered. "Yeah, well I love you too."

"…Really?"

Astrid looked a little shocked at his disbelief. "Are you legitimately asking me if I'm telling the truth right now?"

A pause. "I suppose I am."

She walked over and wrapped her arms around him. "Yes Daddy. I love you. Very much."

With that, he reciprocated, wrapping her in his arms and kissing her forehead. He couldn't stop himself grinning, but who was there to keep up appearances for? No one, that's who. So Sherlock smiled.

* * *

Wednesdays were physical therapy days, as were Fridays and Mondays; between broken ribs, a concussion, an old shoulder wound, and a broken ankle, John needed lots of it. Astrid had put her foot down when he tried to refuse to go, and had even gone so far as to get Sherlock to escort him there and back, waiting with him so he wouldn't sneak off and return at the proper time to make it look like he attended. She knew full well what John was capable of, and she also knew he'd never get back into the proper condition for Sherlock-chasing if he didn't go to his appointments. So John went, and Sherlock escorted, because you really can't argue with blindingly blue eyes like hers when there's that flash of icy hardness behind them, well-meaning though it may be.

It was one of these physical therapy excursions that left Astrid alone at the flat. She was her father's child, which is to say, a genius, and so homework had lost any hope of being a distraction a few hours previously. She heard a knock at the front door, and heard Mrs. Hudson answer it; resuming her thinking posture (hanging upside down off the sofa), she continued ruminating on the problem at hand: what to get Sherlock for his birthday. Of course it was weeks away, but she was nothing if not prepared. Astrid and Sherlock shared a similarity John had discovered just a week previous: when they're deep in thought, a tank could roll through the room and they won't even blink. So you see, Astrid can be forgiven for not hearing the light tread up the seventeen stairs to the front door of the flat, and being startled off the sofa and onto the floor when someone knocked.

_Mrs. Hudson didn't see them leave_ , she realized. She got up and brushed herself off, ready to placate a client and ask them to return when Sherlock was in (she only ever called him Daddy around John or to his face). As she opened the door, she momentarily forgot the scripted responses that had been on the tip of her tongue.

"Oh. Hullo. Aren't you that orderly from the hospital?" She asked, a little confused by his recurring presence.

The pale, dark-haired man looked a little surprised at being recognized. Astrid, still half distracted by her brainstorming session, assumed that he had thought himself invisible, a part of the hospital background. Of course, he  _had_  believed himself invisible, but it was because he'd been wearing a disguise and had been very careful; he never expected the girl to remember him. Recovering quickly, he flashed her a charming smile and took a small step forward.

"Yes, that would be me, wouldn't it?" he lilted.

"If you're here to talk to Sherlock, he's out at the mo, could you come back in a few hours?"

"Well, I'll admit, my first motivation was Mr. Holmes, but I'd also rather like a chat with you."

Astrid isn't unintelligent. She may be inexperienced as far as romantic entanglements with the opposite gender are concerned, but she knows when someone is flirting with her. This guy was  _definitely_  flirting with her. Accepting that her birthday party planning session was postponed indefinitely, she let him in, carefully positioning herself in easy reach of John's gun, kept in a drawer of Sherlock's desk. Some clients were less…stable than others.

"So you came to give him a case, then?" she prompted.

"Oh, that's hardly important," he said, brushing off her inquiry. "I'd rather talk about you."

"Um…what about me?"

"What's your name, then? You never did properly introduce yourself."

"In my defense, neither did you."

"I had a badge!" he laughed.

"I was a bit distracted!" she giggled back. "Astrid," she offered.

"I'm Jim!"

"Nice to finally know your name," she laughed. "You were around enough."

They chatted for quite a while; Jim was friendly and Astrid felt like a regular teenage girl for a little while. Of course, Jim was older than her, but not by much; he appeared three or four years her elder, if that. He seemed to genuinely like her, instead of just being friendly. It was an odd feeling, but not unpleasant.

"Oh! Sherlock and John will be home soon, so you can give him your case. That is, if it's interesting," she added.

He seemed a little unsettled by this; Astrid noticed but didn't say anything.

"Actually, I'm running late for a meeting, I'll have to come by another time," he evaded.

"Oh… I feel bad, you waited quite a while."

"It was so lovely getting to talk to you. Hardly felt like a minute, really. I'll see you around," he said in a sing-song tone.

"Yeah," she said, "that'd be nice." She offered him a shy smile. Jim answered with a grin that was just a little creepy.

He hurried down the stairs and out into the street, hardly giving her time to catch her breath before Sherlock and John were making their best attempts at getting up the stairs. John was shuffling along and Sherlock was doing his best to help him up the stairs and keep his patience at the same time. She hurried down to help; Sherlock's patience did have its limits.

* * *

"Oh! I forgot to tell you! You had a client come in this afternoon, while you were out."

"Yeah?" John prompted. Sherlock wasn't quite bored enough (yet) to stop hiding his excitement at the prospect of a case. Right now, a new composition for his violin was demanding his attention.

"Yeah. Guy named Jim." The look that passed between her parents went unobserved; she was cleaning up dinner and not looking directly at them. "He was at the hospital while you were there…" she paused, thinking of a way to describe him. "But he was never in while you were awake. Odd coincidence," she remarked offhandedly.

"No such thing," Sherlock muttered, deep in thought. He ran his hands through his already-mussed hair, a physical expression of his current mental upheaval.

"He was about normal height, dark hair, pretty pale," she continued, delighting in being able to tell her parents (especially Sherlock) something they didn't already know. "His voice was high pitched and…lilt-y, I guess is how I'd say it. Dublin accent, I'm pretty sure. Doesn't quite seem to match him. He's funny, though. Good sense of humor. Sort of soft-spoken." A pause. "He wouldn't tell me what the case was, though, so I couldn't screen it for you. Sorry." Astrid liked to help Sherlock any way she could. She still entertained the idea of following in his footsteps, but since the awkward birthday conversation, they hadn't revisited it. "I think he liked me," she almost whispered, hoping for but also dreading any commentary. She didn't get any, at least not the kind she expected; her last comment went unheeded by the two men, both of who were lost in thought.

_John tried not to let his heart begin to race; after all, Jim was a common name. Surely it wasn't completely impossible for there to be two Jims with Dublin accents, both dark-haired and pale. It wasn't entirely far-fetched that one might work in the hospital to which they'd been taken, and if he'd heard of their exploits from other staff members, it was entirely plausible that he'd bring them a case, knowing of their reputation. Their address was on the website, after all._

_One look at Sherlock's face told him that Sherlock wasn't even considering the vague placations John had been offering himself._

"Astrid," Sherlock began, "had you ever seen this man before?"

"The hospital, I told you."

"I mean besides there," his voice was tense and a little snappy.

"No, never." She was beginning to pick up on the tension in the room. "Why?" she asked, looking from John's face to Sherlock's.

"This is important Astrid," Sherlock strode toward her, placing a hand on either side of her face. "Close your eyes. Remember that conversation. Did he seem to know anything about us that he shouldn't have? Something you didn't tell him? Something that wouldn't have been common knowledge at the hospital?"

She wrinkled her brow at him, unsure of where he was going with this line of what could only be called interrogation. "Daddy, what are you talking about?"

"Think, Astrid!" He shook her a little bit.

John moved toward the pair almost hesitantly, sensing that Astrid needed an explanation. "Sweetheart, it's possible-just possible, mind you- that he might have been Moriarty. James Moriarty. So it's important to know if he knew anything a stranger shouldn't know, because it's also entirely possible it was just an orderly that happens to sound similar to him when described to two rather paranoid individuals."

"James…would go by Jim," Astrid said, thinking out loud. "Obviously," she sneered at herself as though this should have been her first thought when someone named Jim arrived on their doorstep. She let herself go back, be hanging off the sofa, hear the knock, fall; re-answer the door. Make Sherlock's excuses; see how Jim/James/whoever didn't actually want to leave; invite him in.  _Stupid_. She cursed herself. "He wasn't particularly interested in you," she began. "It sort of struck me as odd, him coming here for help but not really wanting to talk about either of you. Mostly just wanted to chat me up. Didn't make much sense." Her cheeks began to heat up and her face got red with embarrassment. Of course he hadn't  _actually liked_  her. He was just using her. She was stupid for thinking he'd flirt with her, actually have any interest whatsoever. In her? Stupid girl.

"And…?" Sherlock prodded.

"He seemed at ease here. Like he knew his way around the flat. The stuff that normally bothers clients didn't seem to even catch his interest. Not even the skull. He asked an awful lot about me though," she continued, involuntary tears welling up in her eyes. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I just thought he was interested."

"Astrid," John interrupted, "he may well have been. You've said nothing so far to argue that it wasn't just a mad coincidence, all of it."

"No, I suppose I haven't, have I?" she answered, as Sherlock simultaneously rebutted, "There's  _no such thing._ "

"Look, I'm sure it's just an odd thing, you know, it'll all come out alright. Don't worry. Why don't you run up and have your shower?" As Astrid left the room, Sherlock gave John a look that quite clearly said  _surely you don't actually believe what you just told her or you're a bigger idiot than Anderson._

"Of course not," he responded to Sherlock's silent comment. He knew that look quite well. "But no use worrying her. We'll just make do. Keep a better eye out on her. Maybe Mycroft's surveillance isn't such a bad idea." He made no mention of the two of them; the pool was too recent, the scars too recently made.

Sherlock nodded, not wanting to agree but seeing a hint of reason. "Agreed." He dispatched a text:

_**To: MYCROFT HOLMES**_

_**Increase surveillance on Baker St.**_

_**Astrid potentially contacted by JM.**_

_**-SH**_

"Let's go to bed, Sherlock. There's not much more we can do tonight."

And with that, the Holmes-Watson family shut down for the night, Sherlock being willing to sleep at a normal time for once. John checked up on Astrid once more, and then went to the bedroom he shared with Sherlock, collapsing onto the bed, already exhausted from therapy. There really was nothing more they could do;  _the_   _ball is in his court_ , thought John. Sherlock's thoughts went more along the lines of  _your move, Moriarty, but Astrid is not a pawn._ They both drifted off to an uneasy sleep, because what else was there that they could do? Until Moriarty made a move, they were at an impasse.

So time passed, and days turned into weeks, and nothing happened. Astrid let her guard down slightly, her parents' alarm fading into nothing but a sour memory. Weeks became months, and other cases came and went (at least, the interesting ones), and John began to relax a little. Clearly Jim from the hospital was not Jim from IT, or James Moriarty. One month became two, and even Sherlock stopped constantly watching for signs of him. So life went on, like it always did, and they were (as much as they could be) peaceful and content. For them, that meant chasing after criminals, getting to know each other, and trying not to break any important bones. They were doing just fine.

For now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of A Great Man. I'd love you forever if you'd review.


End file.
